LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 

/vj / c o 7 

Chap. Copyright No. 

Shelf.^.SJT^k 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THE EPISTOLARY FLIRT 



THE 



EPISTOLARY FLIRT 



IN FOUR EXPOSURES 



B V 

ESMERIE AMORY 




CHICAGO 

WAY &r WILLIAMS 

1896 












Copyright by 

Way and Williams 

1896 



PERSONS OF THE PIECE. 



Ernestine . . A woman who writes verses* 
Irwin . . . . A man who writes verse. 
Philip . . . A man who writes poetry. 



THE EPISTOLARY FLIRT. 

SCENE I. 

Place: The library of a city house. Present: 
Ernestine and Philip. Time: Evening. 

Philip. — How did it begin ? 

Ernestine. — How does anything begin, 
Philip ? First the blade, then the ear. And 
the blade was such an innocent little green 
thing. Who could have dreamed that the full 
corn would be as heavy as this ? [She lifts a 
large package of letters, and lets it drop to the 
floor.] 

P. [looking about at the scattered mis- 
sives] . — All in your writing. 

E. — All in my writing. 

P. — What a pretty little field of corn it 



8 The Epistolary Flirt 

makes. I can almost hear the wind sigh 
through the leaves. 

E. — Oh, yes, the wind sighs through the 
leaves — the wind sighs through the leaves. 

P. — I '11 warrant that if you look within the 
husk you '11 find as much milkiness and silki- 
ness as — as Nature generally contrives to 
create in such cases. [He laughs.] If I were 
nearer to you I could read the address on the 
envelopes. 

E. — No one shall ever come near enough 
for that. [Picking the letters up and hastily 
sorting them.] Here you observe three piles, 
containing respectively, four, twelve, and 
thirty-seven letters. The first were dated year 
before last, the second last year, the third this 
year. 

P. — I understand. Nature is never content 
with mere geometrical progression. And the 



In Four Exposures 9 

wind did not begin to sigh until there were 
enough leaves for it to sigh through. Suppose 
we start at year before last — before the sighing 
began. 

E. [hastily glancing through the contents of 
the initial four] . — Oh, there is nothing in them 
— nothing but gratitude and twaddle about my- 
self. You know he believes that I am a poet. 

P. — What a fool ! You are a much finer 
thing : you are a woman. 

E. — It does not seem very difficult to be a 
woman. I know many fellow-beings who are 
so distinguished. 

P. — But the majority of them have miser- 
ably failed in the business of womanliness, a 
business in which you are a conspicuous suc- 
cess — in your way. But let us to the course 
of untrue love. Who was the first to write to 
which ? 



io The Epistolary Flirt 

E. — He wrote to me first. He happened 
to see a little love lyric of mine in a news- 
paper, and he wrote to say that he had marked 
it and sent it to his sweetheart, with the com- 
ment that it expressed his love for her more 
perfectly than he could. That was all I heard 
of him for two years. Then he wrote again, 
praising a triolet of mine he had seen in an- 
other paper. He said I had done something 
never yet achieved — I had given a soul to a 
triolet. 

P. [vehemently] . — Never ! You '11 find 
a box of figs growing on every thread of thistle- 
down before you '11 find a soul in a triolet. 

E. — I perceive that you have not yet read 
my triolet. Then he asked me as a fellow- 
writer to gratify his deep interest in my work 
by sending him more of it. 

P. — And then you thanked him prettily, 



In Four Exposures n 

and mailed him the best of your best, and he 
sent back superlatives. 

E. — No, he did not deal in anything so 
cheap. He praised with discrimination; he con- 
demned unsparingly ; he roundly denounced 
my careless workmanship, and extolled my 
tenderness. 

P. [musingly] . — Yes, your verse has ten- 
derness — and that is something. Why, the 
average hand -painted poem in a magazine 
couldn't be tender. 

E. — Still, a trifle too much of feeling is a 
sickening thing. In my writing I never dare 
do more than merely hint at emotion. 

P. — In your epistolary writing ? 

E. [faintly blushing] . — Oh, in my letters 
I 'm afraid I show less respect for the artistic 
need of self-restraint. 

P. — I remember. I remember. 



i2 The Epistolary Flirt 

E. — But you know I am not grossly defi- 
nite. I hint and hint and hint as delicately as 
April hints of harvest. 

P. — Ah, you have then become an adept 
in these six years. Read me some confirma- 
tory extracts. 

E. — In this first letter — the first one that 
he kept — I say, " I do not know how to thank 
you enough for all your generous kindness. 
To be so believed in would give voice and 
wings to a mute inglorious clod." That was 
after he had eulogized my rondeaus and char- 
acterized my sonnets by an adjective that kept 
me in the clouds for a week. After that he 
scolded me for my unhappy-go-lucky way of 
doing my work, and I began my next letter 
with, " Do believe me when I assure you that 
I shall revise and re-revise and re-re-revise. 
The fierce critical light that beats about my 



In Four Exposures 13 

pen and ink shall not abate until I hear you 
exclaim, More matter with less art." 

P. — And then ? 

E. — Oh, then he told me he had called on 
an aunt of mine who had showed him my pic- 
ture, and that it conflicted a little with his men- 
tal image of me. I was so flattered to know 
that he had had a mental image of me that I 
immediately called that an unfair advantage, 
and said that I had a large mental picture gal- 
lery of him, and that as it was very inconven- 
ient to carry around such a collection of vary- 
ing faces and forms, would he be so kind as to 
let me see one of his photographs. I should 
take very good care of it and return it promptly, 
unless I happened to discover that he had a 
spare one that I could keep. In that case I 
said I should put it in a very pretty frame on 
my writing table, and just below it should be 



14 The Epistolary Flirt 

these words copied from his last letter : u Your 
willingness to leave your work unperfected 
distresses me." What do you think happened 
next ? 

P. — He sent you his picture. 

E. — He sent me five of his pictures, all 
taken at different times, and all within a year. 
" Vanity, thy name is man," was my first 
thought, and my second thought was, " What 
a beauty ! " Of course I could keep only one 
of the photographs, and I chose the loveliest 
of all. 

P. — Oh, admirer of beauty in man ! 

E. — I admire beauty in man, woman, child, 
beast, bird, and serpent. Everyone ought to 
be beautiful. Someone joggled Nature's elbow 
when she was making my face, otherwise my 
features would have been superbly regular. 
You told me that, you know. 



In Four Exposures 15 

P.— -You have a superb figure. There is n't 
the faintest approach to a straight line in it. 
Like your mind, it beautifully illustrates the 
subtle forces of indirection. 

E. — Oh, do n't, do n't say pretty things to 
me, Philip. From your lips they are such a 
pungent reminder of the flowers of yester-year. 

P. — Did you tell your correspondent not to 
say pretty things to you ? 

E. — I warned him that some of his expres- 
sions ministered to my love of the beautiful. 

P. — And did you resist the temptation to 
say pretty things to him ? 

E. — Resist the irresistible ! I found a be- 
lated November flower and pressed it and sent 
it to him. After his next letter, I say, " Your 
letter is a rich return for that fragile scrap of 
withered Novemberishness. The inspiration 
and encouragement that I am growing to de- 



1 6 The Epistolary Flirt 

pend on so much come in so graceful a form 
that the manner is worth almost more than the 
matter." And next he hurt my feelings. I 
sent him what /thought was a humorous piece, 
and after criticising it severely he hoped that I 
would not feel either hurt, offended, or dis- 
heartened by his comments. Here is my 
response: "I was a little hurt ('unnatural' 
and c unworthy in every way ' are c words that 
burn' in a sense that you could not have 
intended), but I was n't the least bit offended, 
and I am never disheartened." You see I am 
reading you these bits from my letters to show 
you the manner in which I revealed myself to 
him. 

P. — I understand. Innocent vision ! He 
was heart-broken over your hurt ? 

E. — He was a picturesque ruin. I could 
almost see the moon rising over him. 



In Four Exposures 17 

P. — Ah ! It 's not wise to gaze at that 
species of ruin by moonlight. 

E. — Naturally I enjoyed his remorse — the 
real part, the exaggerated part, and the simu- 
lated part. I can 't help liking a man who 
takes the trouble even to simulate an emotion 
for my sake. 

P. — Can 't help liking him ? 

E. — Can 't help liking him. [Sighing.] 
Oh, that was the period of sweet and innocent 
liking, before the miserable ecstasy began. 
[He laughs.] Do n't laugh, Philip. 

P. — Certainly the miserable ecstasy could 
be no laughing matter ; but is n't it extraordi- 
nary, Ernestine, the way that dread disease 
will pursue your flying footsteps ? There 's an 
awful fatality about it. Do your very utmost 
to escape, and you simply can 't. 



1 8 The Epistolary Flirt 

E. [frowning]. — That isn't a very nice 
speech. 

P. [soothingly]. — Oh, well, I was only 
joking when I made it. 

E. [smiling]. — If your insults were not so 
artistic I would never forgive you for them. 

P. — As an artist I am not worthy to be 
mentioned with you. But what was the next 
step in the primrose path ? 

E. — Oh, then he fell ill, and I petted him 
a little. I said I would try not to worry about 
him, but that when his picture was standing 
directly before me several hours a day I 
could n't help seeing it, and to see it was to 
think about him, and to think about him was 
to be a little anxious — all that sort of thing, 
you know. In my next letter I say [reading]: 
" No, I cannot bring myself to send you one 
of my just-finished photographs. It looks so 



In Four Exposures 19 

unhappy. And I am never unhappy — except 
when I have to have a picture taken. But I 
shall certainly frown as blackly at you as this 
picture does at me if you write me another 
letter in your present wretched state of health 
— no matter how short it is, nor how glad I 
may be to get it." Are n't you tired of all this ? 

P. — No, no. I came here to-night to listen 
to your writings, and to criticise them. 

E. — But not my prose writings. Here is 
endless prattle about my verses and what he 
thinks of them, and his poetry, and what I think 
of it, the walks I take, the books I read, the 
people I meet, and — oh, yes, here is something 
more about his picture [reading]: "I brought 
back an armful of blossoming boughs from my 
walk yesterday, and wreathed a spray of wistaria 
vine about your picture. Only a few of its buds 
had opened, but in the night they all unfolded, 



20 The Epistolary Flirt 

and it dropped its weight of bloom down to 
your pictured shoulder. Was n't that a pretty 
achievement ? And 't is my faith that every 
flower enjoys the — the influence it breathes. 
Do you still insist on my photograph ? Con- 
sider ! Friendship is a delicate thing. Why 
should I imperil ours by sending you the pic- 
ture of a desperate creature, brought to bay by 
a photographer ? How can I confront a soul- 
less camera with my most soulful expression ? 
How can I look at a speck on a wall as though 
it was the only speck on a wall that I ever 
loved ? " 

P. — What pretty little unconscious move- 
ments a moth can make in a resolute search 
after fire. 

E. — About this time he told me he loved 
my letters, and that seemed a little presump- 
tious, so I became a trifle cool ; and then he 



In Four Exposures 21 

was very busy working on his novel, and I 
did n't hear from him for weeks, and missed 
him dreadfully. In explanation of his silence 
he said that the heroine of his novel was a 
somewhat idealized version of the girl he was 
engaged to marry, and that as long as my let- 
ters were distracting his mind, this central 
figure in his fiction showed a tendency to ex- 
press herself in my turn of phrase, which was 
utterly out of keeping with her subdued and 
lamb-like character. I suspect his inamorata 
must have been decidedly of the namby-pamby 
order, or she could never have suggested a 
heroine of that tiresome nature. However, I 
constructed a reply in which wounded feeling, 
gentle dignity, and a certain lady-like misgiving 
each played a delicate part. I suggested that 
our correspondence should cease, or at least be 
suspended till the novel was finished. He flung 



22 The Epistolary Flirt 

back impetuous sheets, declaring that he could 
not live without my letters. I assured him 
with entire equanimity that I was very certain 
he could. Then he plead with me. He said 
his novel sickened him to the point of tears ; 
he hoped I would never mention it again. 
Poor fellow ! he had reached the spot that 
every writer sooner or later is forced to cross 
— that deadly place where the heavens are 
brass, and the brain a broken ink-bottle, with 
only a thick, black smear where the fount of 
thought was wont to begin its easy flow. In 
a word, he had lost self-confidence. The girl 
of his choice was very kind to him. She 
thought kindness was what he needed. I knew 
better. I knew he needed to be flattered up 
to the skies. 

P. — Trust you for a correct diagnosis ! 

E. — I quoted bits from his letters, and 



In Four Exposures 23 

praised their style and finish. I had previously 
extolled the few poems of his he had sent me, 
so I had to find some new adjectives for them. 
Then in desperation I recurred to his picture. 
I said it was absurdly young and beautiful, and 
that I knew it was vain, because it looked so 
woe-begone when I neglected to dust it, and I 
hinted that it was dusted pretty frequently, and 
with my best lace handkerchief at that. I 
always spoke of it as " the pretty child," and 
altogether I must have told him a lot of stuff 
about it. 

P. — What was your object in working his 
picture so hard ? 

E. [dropping her chin thoughtfully into her 
upturned palms]. — Oh, the pleasure of warm- 
ing one's wings, I suppose, and the high moral 
joy of teaching fire that all moths do n't get 
burnt. My motive, I imagine, was one-fourth 



24 The Epistolary Flirt 

flirtatiousness, one-fourth a wish to cheer him 
up, one-fourth curiosity to see how far he 
would go and one-fourth a desire to teach him 
the valuable lesson that it 's wrong for a man 
to flirt. 

P. — Each of you, then, really believed that 
the other was — hm. That is very interesting. 
And in return for this valuable lesson he prob- 
ably taught you the equally valuable lesson 
that it 's wrong for a woman to flirt. 

E. — Yes, he did; and I needed it. He 
wrote me a letter that scared me a little, but I 
was reckless. I could n't help going on in the 
same strain. 

P. — Poor moth ! Poor moth ! 

E. — Oh, put your moth in the plural num- 
ber. There were two of us, you know. Next 
he wrote me a passionate love-letter that hor- 



In Four Exposures 25 

rifled me. But on the last page his mood 
changed. He hinted ever so delicately that 
we were reeling, but that it was not yet too 
late to clear the mists and the delirium from 
our eyes — we had not yet spoken the words 
that kill. He begged me to help him to be 
strong — to keep him from becoming the man 
that I myself would despise. His letter was 
an impassioned confession of love, and an 
agonized entreaty to be delivered from it. Pic- 
ture the state of mind I was in. Inevitably 
my conscience was sore, my vanity exultant, 
my self-respect humiliated, my heart inexpres- 
sibly stirred and saddened, my nobler nature 
wakened into vivid life ! That word " reel- 
ing" really stung. It pierced my leaden con- 
sciousness that the drama was to close. He 
thought I was " reeling," did he ? Very well ; 



26 The Epistolary Flirt 

I would take steps to show him that my head 
was perfectly clear. This is what I wrote 
[reading] : 

"Your last letter makes me exultantly happy. 
You are a good man — a good man, and a noble one. 
You stood the test magnificently. You knonv I did 
not deliberately set myself to test you — it was abso- 
lutely unintended — but it ivas a test nevertheless, and 
you came out of it like pure gold. You splendid fel- 
low ! You don't know how glad I am. Because if 
you had been the least little bit cheap it would have 
hurt my ideal of you. And now the ideal is n't a par- 
ticle hurt — it's glorified. 

" It seems to me now that I 've been a little merci- 
less with you, and I've no defence except my love of 
play — of playing on an instrument as delicate and rare 
as the one I found to my hand. I wouldn't have 
cared to play with anything commoner. I can't plead 
ignorance, because, some weeks ago, I heard your 
voice through the air asking me if I knew what I was 
doing, and I answered back that I did know a little — 
and that I was shutting my eyes tightly to keep them 
from knowing more. And of course that is no excuse. 
You behold, then, a woman who confesses that she has 



In Four Exposures 27 

led you on (though she did not mean you to go any 
further or fare any worse than you have done), and who 
is not altogether sorry, because it proved, what she sus- 
pected all along, that you are one of the very best of 
men. I honor you the more because the victory was 
not easy for you. If you had not been so sensitive and 
impressible, with such a capacity for enthusiasm and 
eagerness and sentiment and tenderness, I wouldn't 
have wanted to play. It was my consciousness of 
those qualities in you that made the pastime so pretty 
— and so cruel. Here is an excellent opportunity for 
me to despise myself, but — see how heroically I re- 
sist temptation ! — I am not going to do so. It would 
only make us both miserable. 

" Do you know what will happen when we meet ? 
/ know exactly. I shall be so overjoyed that all shy- 
ness and self-consciousness will be drowned in glad- 
ness. Perhaps my hands will shake a little, but that 
will pass in a moment or two. Then the thousands 
of things we want to say to each other will begin to 
crowd up, and we shall talk and talk and talk. In a 
few minutes we shall feel like disembodied intelligences. 
It will seem, to me at least, that every drop of blood 
in my body is in my head, and close to boiling point. 
I shall live more in an hour than I usually do in a 



28 The Epistolary Flirt 

year. I shall be perfectly happy. And if we talk for 
an hour it will take me at least four hours afterwards 
to realize that I have a body as well as a brain." 

P. — Very well done — for a moth. 

E. — I was crying my eyes out all the time 
I wrote it, but not a drop fell on the paper. It 
does n't do for tonics to be watery, and I meant 
that letter to be a tonic. He wrote back by 
the next mail, saying that I was no more a 
professional heart-tester than he was a pro- 
fessional pork-packer, and inquiring why I lied. 
I give it rather more plainly than he did, you 
know. That made me intensely angry, and 
equally determined to prove that I had told the 
truth. I mailed him a cold note, asking that 
my letters should be returned to me. He sent 
them back, and with them an impassioned ap- 
peal for my friendship, and I could not respond 
to that half-heartedly. Here is the last page 
of my reply [reading] : " I am sorry my last 



In Four Exposures 29 

letter was cold. I let my hurt pride write it 
for me. But now that is all over. And I am 
coming back to you with all my heart, and 
looking straight in your eyes, and saying, c Please 
don't be troubled another moment, because we 
are going to be the truest and dearest friends 
forever and ever, and we are going to make 
our friendship the most beautiful and satisfying 
thing imaginable.' " 

P. — And that is where you stand at present I 

E. — Yes. And the important point on which 
I want your advice is this : The aunt of mine 
he spoke of has invited me to visit her. If I 
do he may possibly call on me. Would it be 
wise for me to accept the invitation ? 

P. — Oh, yes — yes ! Everything that a 
moth does is wise. 

E. — But we are on the solid basis of pure 
friendship. 



30 The Epistolary Flirt 

P. — No doubt. But let me tell you some- 
thing. The soul that sinneth, it shall die \ that 
is a heavy punishment. The soul that play- 
eth at sin, it shall not be able to refrain from 
playing at sin; that is the insupportable penalty. 

E. [reddening] . — Bah ! 

P. — Good-by, dear innocent child. Your 
people are all abed, and I must steal out like 
a thief in the night. I am glad of your confi- 
dence, but — do n't let him talk to you — not 
just yet. 



In Four Exposures 31 



SCENE II. 

Place : The parlor of a cottage on the lake 
shore. Irwin sits waiting. He looks up 
as a rustle is heard on the stairs. Enter 
Ernestine. 

Ernestine. — Oh, I am so glad to see you. 

Irwin [with soft deliberation], — This is 
you — this is really Ernestine ? 

E. — Yes. [She draws her hands from his 
clasp, and her eyes from his long gaze.] 

/. — Of course I took the first train for the 
beach as soon as I heard of your arrival. I 
know it 's unpardonably early. 

E. — My aunt will be sorry to miss seeing 
you. She has just gone out. 

/. — I am very sorry to miss your aunt. I 



32 The Epistolary Flirt 

lay awake nearly all last night thinking of her* 

E. [bridling] . — My aunt is a very sweet 
woman, and a very beautiful woman. [Sigh- 
ing] I — [stops as if confused] . 

/. — You have a — do let me say it — a 
beautiful figure [she blushes] and [with en- 
thusiasm] the very loveliest color in the world. 

E. — May heaven preserve my figure and 
my color ! 

/. — Heaven will be sure to hear that prayer. 

.E.— Why. 

/. [with extended hands] . — Because it is so 
near to you. [In the lowest audible tone] 
Ernestine — Ernestine — 

E. [as steps are heard without]. — Is that 
the butcher ? And Auntie told him not to 
come to the front door. Oh, no, it 's the gro- 
cer's boy. He 's going around to the back. 



In Four Exposures 33 

/. [turning to the window]. — Any informa- 
tion regarding butchers and grocers gratefully 
received. [After a pause.] It is like dew 
upon the parched ground. 

E. — Let us go down to the lake. It is too 
perfect a day to waste between four dull walls. 

/. — There is a hammock out here under 
an apple-tree, with a big chair, and a book be- 
side it. Let us go to the book of verse beneath 
a spreading bough. 

E. — Very well. 

/. — Or — I do n't know. I have a ham- 
mock at home, but no lake. 

E. [impatiently]. — Which shall it be ? 

/. [leaning luxuriously back in his chair]. — 
My dearest friend, the secret of happiness is to 
do nothing — except muse upon the delightful 
things that one might do. 



34 The Epistolary Flirt 

E. — Ugh ! [She leaves the room, and re- 
turns equipped with hat, gloves, and sun um- 
brella]. Are you coming ? 

/. [as they leave the house]. — I am glad 
you made me come. I did n't know how 
heavenly it was out of doors. 

E. — Has the weather changed so much in 
fifteen minutes ? 

L — Yes. You are with me now. [Ten- 
derly] Ernestine, we are together. Do you 
realize it ? 

E. [dreamily]. — No, I can 't realize it, but 
it 's the loveliest thing in the world, is n't it, 
Irwin — our relation to each other ? It makes 
me so sorry for that gay party of people on the 
beach. 

/.—Why ? 

E. — Because all their friendships are pro- 
saic. Ours is the only poetic friendship. But 



In Four Exposures 35 

they would n't understand it if we explained it 
to them. 

/. — No -, but we do n't want them to un- 
derstand. I am satisfied to know that every 
leaf and blade of grass is glad for us, and every 
wave is tranced in joy. Those enraptured 
woods beyond the lake understand us perfectly. 
Let us take a boat and go to them. [After 
they have pushed away from the shore.] 
There ! now I can see you in a wide unpeo- 
pled frame of lake and sky. A person in a 
boat has the peculiar distinction of a passage 
torn from its context. 

E. — I take all nature for my context. I 
belong out of doors. 

/. — So do I. A primrose by the river's 
brim a yellow primrose is to me, and it is a 
thousand times more. 

E. — I grew up in the heart of the country* 



36 The Epistolary Flirt 

Think what a heavenly delight it was to be 
companioned from my earliest days by things 
that are not egotists, nor nervous, nor restless, 
nor unsatisfied, nor conscious of their bigness 
nor of their littleness, nor affected, nor garru- 
lous, nor flurried. [Looking around.] Are n't 
we running into shore ? 

/. — I want to get a nearer view of that 
curious tree. Do you know its name ? 

E. — I know it by sight, but I do n't know 
its name. Names are an endless bother. I 
know very few of them. 

/. — You do n't know the names of things 
you have grown up among ? 

E. — No ; I am intimately attached to the 
bones in my wrist, for example, but I do n't 
know their names. My appreciations of na- 
ture are infantile. I am an infant smiling in 
the sun, and with no language but a smile. 



In Four Exposures 37 

/. — Happy baby ! It is permissible to 
caress babies. 

E. — But not possible, thank goodness — 
in a boat. 

/. — We are going into shore now. 

E. — Why, no we 're not. Those are not 
the enraptured woods you spoke of. 

/. — No ; these are merely ecstatic. You 
are right. 

E. [as the boat is pushed up the beach] . — 
I refuse to leave my seat. 

/. — Ernestine, can 't you trust me ? Do 
you think I would give you even a glance of 
— of an unchivalrous kind ? 

E. — No, I should wrong you to doubt. 
[Going with him into the wood.] It is cooler 
in here, and you are flushed with that hard 
work in the hot sun. [They sit down with 
their backs against adjacent trees.] 



38 The Epistolary Flirt 

/. — Shall we talk or be silent ? 

E. — I do n't know. We are happy when 
we do n't speak, and not exactly unhappy when 
we do. 

/.—Tell me about the " Pretty Child." Is 
he good, or has he had to have his face turned 
to the wall again ? 

E. — How silly that sounds ! 

/. — That time you took him into the woods 
with you — carrying him under your cape, so 
that anyone you might meet would not know 
there were two of you — what a lovely time 
you had ! He leaned up against a tree and 
looked at you while you read in your book, 
and then a little wind roused him from his 
reverie and he flew off with the flying leaves, 
and when you rushed round to intercept his 
flight that same naughty wind flung him into 
your arms. 



In Four Exposures 39 

E. [with mortification]. — Oh, I never said 
that last part. Never ! Never ! 

/. — But that was what you foresaw must 
happen. 

E. — What nonsense ! If you are going to 
quote from those absurd letters of mine I shall 
go back to the boat, 

/. — Never speak a word against those let- 
ters. No woman on earth ever wrote such 
letters to any man. No such appeals to the 
heart and imagination were ever made before, 
or will ever be made again. But why did you 
not return me mine ? 

E. — Your letters seem ever so much more 
intimately my own than mine seem. 

/. — How near we came to each other, dar- 
ling Ernestine. 

E. — Yes ; the only way for souls to get near 



40 The Epistolary Flirt 

is for them to be far apart. But you must n't 
call me darling, Irwin. 

/. — I did n't. I called you darling Ernestine. 

£. [coloring] . — You must n't. 

/. [entreatingly] . — Why not ? 

E. [sadly] . — It 's wrong. 

/. [passionately] . — No ; it 's right. 

E. [looking down] . — And I do n't like it. 

/. — Yes, you do; you like it better than 
anything else. 

E. [rising to her feet] . — I am going back 
to the boat now. 

J. — No, you are not. You are going to 
stay here forever with me. 

E. — Dear Irwin, do be reasonable. 

/. — It 's highly wrong for you to call me 
" dear." Besides, it 's improper, and I do n't 
like it. [Suddenly growing wistful.] Am I 
really dear to you ? 



In Four Exposures 41 

E. — Ah, do you need to ask ? 

/. — You treat me as if I were an ordinary 
acquaintance. 

E. [looking at him with melting eyes] . — 
Just a mere ordinary acquaintance — that's all 
you are. 

/. [with his eyes on hers] . — Darling, we 
are all alone. 

E. [with mock fervor, as a picnic party 
comes in sight] . — Darling, we are not all 
alone. 

/. [after they are again in the boat] . — It 
strikes me you look inexplicably happy. 

E. — A woman's happiness consists in the 
kisses she does n't quite receive. 

/. — Well, a man's happiness does not con- 
sist in giving the kisses that are not quite re- 
ceived. You might think of me. 

E. — I do think of you part of the time. 



42 The Epistolary Flirt 

/. — All of the time ? 

E. — Oh dear, no, Irwin. Part of my sleep 
is dreamless. 

/. — And you think of me all the rest of the 
time ? 

E. — Not exactly think — that implies a 
voluntary action. But nearly every minute of 
my days and dreams has a sort of Irwinian 
flavor. 

/. — Dear, I am so happy. 

E. — So am I. 

/. — But all the same I should like to throttle 
those picnicers. Why should mere picnicers 
go to the woods ? 

E. — Why, indeed ? They have nothing to 
conceal. That is the beauty of prosaic friend- 
ship — it can be known and read of all men. 

/. — Do you like to say things that hurt me ? 

E. — Oh, my dearest friend, your face is all 



In Four Exposures 43 

drawn with pain. What have I said ? What 
are you thinking of? 

/. — Dearestfriend — ah ! I am thinking of 
the girl I love — the girl to whom I have been 
engaged for five years. 

E. — Do tell me about her. Is n't that her 
picture — that cardboard showing its edge from 
your pocket ? Please let me see it. [As he 
reluctantly produces it.] Oh, Irwin, she is 
beautiful. Such sweetness, such candor, such 
a spring in the face. 

/. — What do you mean by a spring in the 
face ? 

E. — Do n't you know ? Why, elasticity 
— life — lift — spring — the thing that makes 
a tree different from a poem about a tree. 

/. [resolutely] . — She is to my life what the 
sky is to the earth — the heavenly part — the 
light, the warmth, the wonder, and the beauty. 



44 The Epistolary Flirt 

[He replaces the picture in his breast, and 
folds his arms tenderly across it.] 

E. — Is n't it time we were going home ? 

I. — There are tears in your eyes, my dearest 
— friend. 

E. — I am not your dearest. 

I. — I meant to say " my dear." 

E. — That is what the drummers say to the 
pretty waiter girls. 

L — Then I will say, u my dear child." 

E. — That is what preachers call their wives. 

7. — Will you let me call you " dear " with- 
out the drummerisque prefix ? 

E. — That is better. Still, it suggests the 
possibility of being made to feel cheap. 

L — Oh, Ernestine, I can 't bear to see the 
happy light go out of your eyes. What is it 
that troubles you, sweet ? 



In Four Exposures 45 

E. — Only the pain that comes to those 
who feel too much. 

7. — I know what it is — I know. It is 
cruelly hard. [His own eyes moisten.] 

E. [bravely smiling] . — Not so hard as 
though we had nothing but — [pauses] ah — 
feeling — to comfort us. Why, we have unity 
of tastes and pursuits and interests, the mate- 
rials out of which the tenderest and most exalted 
friendships are made. It would be shameful 
to degrade all the lovely possibilities of our 
intimacy to the level of a vulgar flirtation. 

L — You are a noble girl, and every syllable 
you say is truth. Here we are at our beloved 
woods again. Do n't you enjoy them ? 

E. — Yes, I enjoy them, and I enjoy your 
enjoyment of them, and I enjoy their enjoy- 
ment of themselves. There is an effect I 



46 The Epistolary Flirt 

have often tried to get in my verses, and always 
failed. Do you see that crumbling log lying 
in moss and ferns among its living brothers ? 
Does n't that suggest to you the deepest depth 
of repose ? 

/. — I see what you mean. The living tree 
has restfulness, the fallen tree more restful- 
ness, the rotting log has reached the superla- 
tive of quiescence. 

E. — You know my thought before I utter it. 

/. — Do you think a mossy log is more re- 
poseful than a grave ? 

E. — Oh, yes ; a grave never was alive — 
it is only the covering of what once lived. 

/.— Oh, dear! 

E. — Are you grieving over the fact that 
you are mortal ? 

/. — No ; I am repining at the discovery that 
the building at your left is not a hotel. It is 



In Four Exposures 47 

only a grocery. Do you suppose I could get 
anything eatable there ? 

E. — Dried herring and sauerkraut. 

/. — Ye gods ! Can two souls attuned to 
poesy subsist on herring and sauerkraut ? 

E. — Do take me straight home, Irwin, and 
I '11 get you a charming little supper. 

/. — No, I want to stay on the lake till the 
stars come out. I want to see your face by 
moonlight. [He springs to the dock, and 
returns soon after with numerous parcels.] Do 
you like to eat out of doors ? 

E. [guardedly]. — It depends largely on 
what there is to eat. 

/. — When we get out of sight of shore I '11 
show you. 

E. [investigating the packages]. — Crackers, 
of course, canned chicken and olives, some 
luscious ripe plums and bananas, and — what 9 s 



48 The Epistolary Flirt 

this ? Ice cream ! Oh, you ridiculous boy ! 

I. [laying down his oars] . — There ! I 
did n't want to show to all the world around 
how two poets can eat when they do n't have 
to keep up appearances. I '11 open that can. 
This chicken is the " piece of resistance," as 
the English boy said when he was translating 
a French description of a dinner table. 

E. — What absurdity are you saying ? Oh, 
Irwin, how sweet it is — this outdoor privacy, 
and the poetry of Nature redeeming even the 
prose of eating, and your adorable face so near 
— so near. 

/. [putting his face nearer] . — Darling ! 

E. [drawing back]. — And a newspaper 
tablecloth that will fly up at the corners. 

I. — These bananas would be better with a 
rum sauce. Do take another. It does me 



In Four Exposures 49 

good to see you eat. But do you know, I 
fancied that you always had a delicate appetite. 

E. — How strange ! And I fancied that 
you always made tactful remarks. 

/. — Have some more ice cream, Pussy ? 

E.— Don't call me by that horrid name! 

/. — But you are a Pussy ; you 've just 
shown me the claws under the velvet. 

E, [going into tears] . — If you knew how 
I hated, hated, hated cats, you could never, 
never — [she sobs] . 

/. — My own darling — friend. I am so 
sorry. You once told me so in a letter, and 
I was a fool to forget it. Do n't try to forgive 
me. I'm an unfeeling boor. [After a sad 
pause.] Would you mind telling me your 
favorite animal ? 

E. [sobbing quietly] . — The pore — pore — 

porcupine. 
4 



50 The Epistolary Flirt 

/. [tragically] . — Ah, I see you have not 
forgiven me. 

E. [with a hysterical shriek of laughter], — 
Well, you asked me not to forgive you. And 
besides I couldn't say chipmunk, though it 
really is my favorite, because then you 'd think 
you 'd have to call me that. " Come here, 
little Chip ! Pretty little Chip ! Chippie want 
an olive ? " [Goes off into a fit of uncon- 
trollable laughter.] 

/. — Yes, I think on the whole you have 
rather more to laugh at than you had to cry for. 

E. — Oh, Irwin, you must think me a fright- 
ful lunatic, but there 's a reason for every bit 
of my lunacy. You see every moment of the 
sweetness and preciousness of this day is pene- 
trated by the sharp sense that it 's the last time 
— the last time. We must not meet again, 
and our letters will never be quite the same as 



In Four Exposures 51 

they were before we met. Then when you 
hinted that about my appetite, it hurt me so to 
think that anything not quite delicate was asso- 
ciated with me in your mind, and at the mention 
of that most loathed of all the animal creation I 
could n't endure any more. But it isn't really 
like me to be so foolish and hysterical, Irwin. 
What makes me so silly when I am with you ? 

/. — You are not silly, darling. You are 
admirably clear-headed and candid. See, the 
stars are coming out. Let us pack the rest of 
this stuff away, and give our last hour together 
to heavenly thoughts and heavenly happiness. 
Oh, what an accursed thing a boat is ! No- 
body can do anything he wants to do in it. 

E. — What is it you want ? 

/. — I want to lie down with my head on a 
fold of your gown, and look up at the near 
lights in your face, and the far lights in the sky. 



52 The Epistolary Flirt 

E. — How sweet ! But I 'm glad you can't. 

/. — I want to drink to the last drop the 
delicious cup of your nearness and dearness. 

E. — Darling boy ! But I 'm so glad you 
can 't. 

/. — I wish that the joy of every lovely 
thing that nature has shown us, and every 
exquisite emotion that we have shown each 
other, should blend in our embrace. I want — 

E. — Oh, good evening, Miss Tarville. 
How do you do, Mr. Sydenham. Yes, the 
water is delightfully smooth to-night. [In a 
lower tone, as the other boat sweeps past.] 
No, I do n't think they heard you, though that 
Tarville girl did have on her fathomless expres- 
sion. But do be careful. 

/. — I do n't want to be careful. I want to 
be reckless. Oh, the lovely moon in the sky, 
and the other moon in the lake. How happy 



In Four Exposures 53 

they are ! Ernestine, Ernestine, the world is 
packed fuW^full of bliss. 

E. — Irwin, that rum you did n't get on 
your bananas has gone to your head. 

I. — Yes, the rum I did n't get, and the 
kisses I did n't get, and the caresses that never 
reached me — they 've all gone to my head, 
and to my heart. 

E. — Those people are coming this way 
again. I daresay they do n't want to miss any 
of your conversation. 

/. — Then I am going to take you home. 

E. — Yes, do ; I am growing chilly. [He 
pulls silently to the beach. Arrived at the 
house, she takes a key from her bag and un- 
locks the door.] 

/. — Why, is everyone out ? 

E. — Auntie told me she would n't be back 
till late, and I gave the girl a holiday. 



54 The Epistolary Flirt 

/. [entering with her], — Then we might 
have been here, blessedly alone, all this after- 
noon ! 

E. [opening her eyes wide] . — Here! Here! 
And lost the skies, and the woods, and the 
water, and the divine wind ! 

/. — Ah, sweet, no. We should have had 
Love's deep, deep skies, and Love's flowering 
or flaming woods, and Love's intoxicating 
winds and delicious waves. Do you love me, 
Ernestine ? 

E. — Yes, Irwin. 

/. — Then come. [She goes to his arms 
and lays her cheek on his shoulder.] This is 
what I have waited for all day — all my life. 
Are you happy, darling ? 

E. — Not quite, dearest. 

/. — But why — why are n't you happy ? 

E. — You hold me too tightly — and you 



In Four Exposures 55 

hurt — hurt me, Irwin. That picture hurts me. 

7". — The picture ? [He draws the photo- 
graph of his sweetheart from his breast pocket 
and sits down in stupefaction, gazing at it.] 

E. [still standing]. — What is it, Irwin? 
Your face breaks my heart. Oh, what is it, 
darling ? 

/. [groaning] . — I am dishonored, stained, 
ruined ! I can never look my love in the pure 
eyes again. [He kisses the picture passion- 
ately, and the tears start to his eyes.] Oh, let 
me go ! let me go ! 

E. [very distinctly]. — I am not preventing 
you. 

L [taking her hand austerely] . — Good-by. 
You will tell your aunt from me how sorry I 
am not to see her. [Exit Irwin. 



56 The Epistolary Flirt 



SCENE III. 

Place : The parlor of the lake cottage. Time : 
Evening. Irwin sits waiting as before. 
Enter Ernestine. She is pale and cold. 
He springs to his feet, and advances eagerly. 

Irwin. — Oh, Ernestine, I thought you 
would refuse to see me. I do n't deserve to 
have you give me another glance after my 
brutality in leaving you the way I did a week 
ago. My heart has been aching horribly ever 
since. I am so sorry — so despairingly sorry. 
I have not the slightest claim on your forgive- 
ness. 

Ernestine. — I quite agree with you. 

/. — But I could n't endure to part from you 



In Four Exposures 57 

in that way forever. [ His lip trembles.] 
Won't you say you forgive me, Ernestine ? 

E. — Yes, I can say I forgive you. Some- 
times I do n't mean what I say. 

/. — And sometimes you feel a certain pleas- 
ure in saying things that wound me. 

E. — Yes ; that is precisely what I feel. 

/. — I did not think you could be so petty ^ 

E. — It seems that I can be. 

/. — It is n't like you. It is utterly unworthy 
of you. 

E. — Just as you please about that. 

/. [after silently gazing at her]. — I don't 
understand it, Ernestine. You are not really 
the frozen creature that for some reason you 
are pretending to be. 

E. — I will explain. When the tree is stark 
and cold the frost cannot hurt it. When it is 
warm with blossoms a lesser frost will turn it 



58 The Epistolary Flirt 

pitiable. When did Summer ever woo blighted 
blossoms into fresh bloom ? 

/. [sadly]. — Never. 

£. [stonily]. — There is no ripening time 
for our affection. There is nothing after our 
blossom-time but death. 

/. — But, Ernestine, even the sharpest spring 
frost leaves a few blossoms untouched — the 
petals of friendship hiding under the branches 
farthest from sun and chill. 

E. — What do you want of my friendship ? 

/. [bitterly]. — Merely the assumption of 
civility accorded to an entire stranger. After 
all, what unpardonable crime was it that I com- 
mitted ? I was suddenly conscience-stricken. 
Even the best of men are liable to be that. 
I tore myself from the brink of ruin. Even 
an angel in human form might do that. 



In Four Exposures 59 

E. [with fire flashing through the frost]. — ■■ 
There was no brink in the case. To suggest 
it is to suggest that I am not a good woman. 
How do you dare to say that ? 

/. — Ernestine, for heaven's sake, not so 
loud. 

E. — Oh, my aunt is in bed with a villain- 
ous headache. Destiny has kindly arranged 
that I can be as loud or as low as I please. 
Brink me no brinks. 

/. — I will never use that word again. 

E. — It always reminds me of a shelving 
rock edging a pit. The poor fools above it 
are freezing to death, and despising the poor 
fools below. The poor fools below are burn- 
ing to death, and despising the poor fools above. 
There is a picture of life for you ! [Turning 
to the piano, and singing to her own accom- 
paniment.] 



6o The Epistolary Flirt 

Oh, the world is petrified 
Hard with malice, scorn, and pride ; 
Let your fallen brother slide — 
While the days are going by. 

/. — It gives me a little shock to hear you 
use slang. 

E. — It would give you a larger shock to 
hear me use profanity. One completely over- 
looked advantage which a religious training be- 
stows upon its possessor is the fine flavor it 
gives to such a poor overworked drudge of a 
word as damn. I once heard a minister tell 
a story in which that word occurred. He could 
not omit it — the very point of the story bal- 
anced on it. He approached it as though it 
might leave a black mark on his righteous lips, 
and in the very act of utterance he went all 
pink and tingling with the iniquitous joy of it. 
Now to a time-worn profligate that word is as 
flavorless as a slice of last week's loaf. 



In Four Exposures 61 

/. [wearily]. — I suppose it is. Somehow 
I never pictured you as using either unkind, 
vulgar, or profane words. 

E. — I suppose not. My own special aver- 
sion is for misapplied words. Once I wrote 
a thing that was n't a poem, though it looked 
like one. It was large, rough-hewn, grotesque, 
intense. I read it to a lady, who exclaimed, 
" How dainty ! " It was about as dainty as a 
wounded bull charging into a football game. 
But " dainty " was the fashionable adjective of 
the moment, so of course it had to be used. 

/. — Your anecdotes are extremely interest- 
ing, but they are not exactly what I came for. 

E. — You came, I suppose, to say good-by ; 
but [politely] I trust you are not thinking of 
going yet. It is scarcely eight o'clock. 

/. — Ernestine, why do you hold me so 
aloof? 



62 The Epistolary Flirt 

E. [laughing]. — Why is the palace fenced 
with stone, and whence are garden walls ? 

I. — I do n't know what you mean. 

E. — I mean that I am free ! free ! free ! 
[She leaps to her feet and flings her arms out- 
ward with abandon.] You have no longer 
any power over me. I have purchased my 
liberty by a week of agony and tears. One 
tender word would forge my chains again, and 
make them stronger than ever. Am I likely 
to give it ? Or permit you to give it ? [She 
crosses the room and raises a window to cool 
the fire in her eyes and cheeks.] 

/. — By Jove ! you are beautiful to-night, 
with that freshness of color and intensity of 
emotion in your face. You deserve to be free. 
Nature never meant you for a domestic woman 
— the type of woman who eternally looks as 
if she smelt the preserves burning. 



In Four Exposures 63 

E. — Yes, the preserves would be a bother ; 
but what really, unfits me for domestic life is my 
incapacity for wrangling. 

/. — Wrangling ? 

E. — Oh, dissensions, contradictions, jar- 
ings, friction, discord. Did you ever visit in a 
house where the eyes of the wife did not at 
some moment in the conversation say to those 
of her husband, " Aha ! you see I am right, 
and you are wrong," or where the eyes of the 
husband did not say to those of the wife, "Aha, 
you see I am right, and you are wrong." Not 
to mention the horrible collisions with children 
and servants over every darn trifle that comes 
up every half minute of the day. I seldom 
pass a house when I am in a railway train with- 
out thinking, " The occupants of that house are 
wrangling and jangling each other's livens out. 
Poor devils ! Poor devils ! " 



64 The Epistolary Flirt 

/. — I do n't like you to say " darn " and 
"devil." 

E. — What do I care what you like ? 

/. — Do n't you care a straw for me, Ernes- 
tine ? 

E. — Divil a straw ! 

/. — You are reckless to-night, and wildly 
inconsistent. 

E. — I am just what I happen to please to be. 

/. — But if you are such a devotee of har- 
mony, how does it come that you are discord- 
ant with me ? 

E. — I do n't know how it comes. 

/. — Oh, be as perverse and heartless as you 
please. 

E* — With pleasure. The only blessed are 
the truly heartless. It is not warmth in the 
heart that keeps one contented, but a constant 
little fire in the head. When I find myself 



In Four Exposures 65 

unhappy, I say, u Fool, you have been seeking 
happiness in your feelings. Go find it in your 
thoughts. Go build a little fire in your head." 
You may have to toil and groan to get the fire 
started, but when the brains begin to snap and 
crackle, and fling out sparks — ah, the joy of 
it ! You sit down luxuriously before the finest 
and most expensive conflagration that earth 
affords. Your hands and feet, your body and 
soul, are alike glowing. Your happiness beg- 
gars that of Paradise. You put some of that 
costly fire into the poem or story you are mak- 
ing, and it will create responsive warmth, or 
kindle a flame in minds most dull of burning. 
Ah, Irwin, that is what life means — not the 
satisfaction of the senses and affections — any 
beast can achieve that ; but the satisfaction of 
the angel that works in the brain and only asks 

for a little fire to work with. 
5 



66 The Epistolary Flirt 

Z, [fervidly] . — Ernestine, you make every 
good impulse of my being thrill into fresh and 
splendid life. I am a nobler man for knowing 
you. Let us both keep alive that glorious little 
fire in the head. [Instinctively they rise and 
clasp hands.] We understand each other per- 
fectly now. But how pale you look. You are 
exhausted. [Remorsefully.] I have tortured 
the noblest soul I ever knew. 

E. [sinking down on the sofa beside him, 
and speaking with low-voiced energy] . — I 
want to be always the noblest, the most truth- 
ful, the most inspiring woman you ever knew. 
I want to command the utmost best that is in 
you as unerringly as though I were a messen- 
ger of God standing in the sun, and speaking 
directly to you. [Reluctantly.] Some of my 
talk to you to-night was not truthful. 



In Four Exposures 67 

/. [kissing her hand reverently] . — I know 
it, Ernestine. 

E. [cradling the kissed hand against her 
bosom]. — No, I pretended to be hard and flip- 
pant and vulgar and hateful to soothe my 
wounded self-love, and make it easier for us 
to walk on a crack. 

/. — To walk on a crack ? 

E. — Yes. The straight and narrow path 
always reminds me of a crack. 

/. [laughing softly]. — Ernestine, I feel 
almost light-headed in the joy of knowing that 
we understand each other perfectly at last. 
Even our parting will be robbed of its pangs > 
for, now that we can trust each other abso- 
lutely, we can dare to see each other again 
many, many times. 

E. [with deep content] . — Yes ; many, 



68 The Epistolary Flirt 

many times. [They lean against the high back 
of the sofa, and exchange fond felicities with 
their eyes.] Oh, this sweet calm, how heav- 
enly it is ! [They gaze in rapturous silence 
for some moments.] Dear, I 'm sorry I was 
cruel to you an hour ago. 

/. — Never think of it again. I knew it was 
only a little farce you were playing. [He puts 
his arm around her waist.] 

E. — No, you must n't do that. 

/. [penitently withdrawing it] . — My arm 
had something to say to you. It wished to say 
that I forgive you for being cruel to me. 

E. [with a humorous glint in her eyes] . — 
I think — perhaps — it might be allowed to 
say that, providing — providing it does n't stut- 
ter. [He draws her closely to him. Her face 
is in his neck, his cheek on her brow. Sud- 
denly she rouses with a laugh.] 



In Four Exposures 69 

/. — Do n't laugh. 

E. — But I am thinking what an unfortu- 
nate person you are. 

/. — In what way unfortunate ? 

E. — You have two afflicted arms — one 
stutters and the other is dumb. 

/. [rising to his feet and drawing her with 
both arms to his breast] . — Oh, darling — 

E, [in alarm] . — Irwin, I never meant — 

I. [fiercely] . — I do n't care what you meant. 
Do you think I can stand your lips in my neck ? 
Do you think I can endure your warm body 
resting its tender weight on me ? Do you think 
I can resist your seductive suggestions ? No, 
by God ! I am not made of stone, nor yet of 
iron. You shall do as I say. You shall put 
your arms around my neck that way, and put 
your lips up to my lips this way [kissing her]. 
Oh, my sweet — my sweet — 



70 The Epistolary Flirt 

E. [tearing herself from him in a tempest 
of tears] . — Oh, Irwin, Irwin, Irwin, I am a 
vile creature ; I am the weakest woman alive. 
Better make your best friend of some Magda- 
len than of me. She at least is what she pro- 
fesses to be. She does n't pose as your guar- 
dian angel, and your bright particular star. Oh, 
God help me ! [She bows her face to her 
knees, and mutters a prayer amid her sobs.] 

/. [with blank, colorless face]. — My good 
Lord, how did we get to this state ? Do n't 
cry, Ernestine, dear, do n't cry. What puz- 
zles me is, how in the devil did we get in this 
pit? 

E. [with averted eyes]. — Merely by the 
action of moral gravitation. Let yourself go, 
and the greater the height from which you de- 
scend, the greater the velocity of your descent. 

/. [with utter sadness]. — And we de- 



In Four Exposures 71 

scended from such beautiful heights Ernestine. 

E. — Oh, I know it ! I know it ! And we 
can never go back. 

/. — Your defeat is not so terrible as mine. 
You are false only to yourself. I have spir- 
itually outraged the woman who believes me 
true — the woman to whom I vowed my truth. 
Oh, Ernestine, I cannot tell you what that 
dear girl is to me. The very sight of her the 
day after I left you put me in an agony of self- 
contempt. She said she v/as glad I had taken 
a holiday, for I had needed it so badly, and she 
pitied me and petted me, while my guilty soul 
shrank and crouched in my body. I told her 
I had seen you, and that we had gone for a 
boat -ride, and that you were an interesting 
woman, and she said she was so glad that my 
holiday had not been a dull one. Oh, she 
stabbed me with her sweet lips, and I burned 



72 The Epistolary Flirt 

to tell her all — to hear her reproach, denounce, 
curse me — anything rather than believe in me. 
The precious girl ! God knows I love her. 
There is nothing in my life that has not been 
opened to her eyes — nothing but this — and 
the burden of this false love, this secret black- 
ness, is greater than I can bear. Your agony 
and tears have been matched by mine. 

E. [weeping]. — Irwin, why did you come 
to me again ? It was a cruel parting — that 
last parting of ours — but it did not hurt as this 
does. 

I. — Before heaven, I did not mean to tempt 
you, or put myself in the way of temptation. 
I wanted to talk to you again. It seemed years 
since I had heard you, laughed with you, looked 
at the roses in your cheeks. I could n't re- 
member whether it was with me or with my 
picture that you had gone boating. It was your 



In Four Exposures 73 

sweet talk to the Pretty Child that first bowled 
me over, Ernestine. No man on earth could 
have stood that. 

E. — But, Irwin, I didn't think of the Pretty 
Child as a man at all. I called him by a dozen 
pet names, and it always gave me a little shock 
when you so easily took it for granted that 
when I was talking to him I was thinking of 
you. And yet [sighing] I suppose it was your 
existence and interest that gave color to my 
fancies. Oh, I should never have met you. 

/. — Ah, my girl, my girl, we can never trust 
each other again. 

E. — No, I have lost your friendship for- 
ever, and all by my own imbecility. Why did 
I sit down beside you ? Why could I not 
have kept you at arms' length ? [They look 
at each other with unspeakable sadness.] I 
wish God would give me another chance. He 



74 The Epistolary Flirt 

trusted you to me twice, and twice I failed 
Him. Oh, I wish He would give me another 
chance ! [They still prefer looking despair- 
ingly at each other to not looking at all.] 

/. — Oh, Ernestine, if we only could by 
some superhuman resolution, superhumanly 
kept, preserve our beautiful companionship 
free from the slightest taint of passion. I can- 
not give you up. You are all the world to me. 
Must I give up all the world in order to save 
my own soul ? I cannot believe it. We are 
rational creatures ; we must regulate and con- 
trol this hitherto unmanageable stream of ten- 
dency. Do people conclude to live without 
water because rivers overflow, and neighbor- 
hoods are swept away ? No, by Jove ! It 
would be degrading to have to admit to our- 
selves that we had not sufficient strength and 



In Four Exposures 75 

self-control to govern a mere instinct of our 
nature. 

E. — Ah, I do n't know. I have lost all 
faith, I am not wantonly wicked, but I have 
shown myself despicably weak. 

/. — No, it is I who have been cowardly. I 
left all the burden of resistance with you. I will 
be strong now. Do you trust me, Ernestine ? 

E.— Yes. 

/. — Then believe me when I say that I feel 
myself stronger now than ever before. Poor 
girl — poor weary child ! I could gatner you to 
my breast as purely as if you were indeed a 
weary little child — just to see your dear face 
at rest before I go. 

E. — Oh, Irwin, your eyes are full of the 
divinest tenderness. 

/. — And my heart is full of the divinest ten- 



76 The Epistolary Flirt 

derness. [In exquisite cadences.] Can *t you 
trust it, Ernestine ? Can 't you trust me ? [He 
draws her softly to him, and she drops her head 
on his shoulder.] There ! now the little pained 
crease is going away from between the brows ; 
now the lips are taking their sweet curve again. 
Close your eyes and rest, dear child. You have 
nothing to fear. 

E. — If I could only die now ! Die as the 
trees die, slowly — oh, so slowly — and go from 
rest to deeper rest, and through that to deepest 
rest; and feel the ferns and mosses growing 
about me — growing slowly, slowly, all about 
me, amid the leaf shadows and the dew. 

/. — And I should be there, too, darling. 

E. [opening her eyes and smiling fondly] . 
— Tou^ Irwin ! what should I do with you ? 
Your warm look would wither my green ferns 



In Four Exposures 77 

— one shy sunbeam glance is enough for them. 

/. — I must leave you now, dearest. It is so 
late. 

E. — Not yet for a moment — just a little, 
little moment. [She gives her finger tips the 
pleasure of touching his face.] I am so glad 
we are strong, and that we can trust each other. 

/. [shivering] . — Yes, I am so glad — so glad. 
Good-by, my — my own. [Their lips meet, 
and cling in a long kiss.] Ah, come closer to 
me, my sweet, my sweet. You gave me your 
soul in that kiss — give me yourself forever. 
You belong to me [huskily]. Nothing can 
come between us. 

E. — Nothing but your sweethearts face. 

/. [with a groan]. — Don't talk to me of 
my pale love. She is my Bible — my heaven 
— my Judgment Day — my goodness-of-God 



78 The Epistolary Flirt 

in human form. But you are my life. I will 
not part with my life. Kiss me again, darling. 
Give me your soul — give me yourself. 

E. [striving to free herself]. — I will not. 
Let me go — instantly. Go away, Irwin — 
ever so far ! 

/. [holding her tightly] . — Oh, you are vir- 
tuous ! You ! with your damnable caresses — 
your fingers on my face and your breath in my 
neck. You soul of a harlot in the body of a 
nun ! You spiritual prostitute clothed in ice ! 
You are not wicked — oh, no, you are only 
weak. Good God ! Give me a woman who 
is wicked and is not weak. Mud is lovelier 
than muddy snow. [Pushes her away, and 
rushes wildly out of the house.] 

E. [following him and wreathing her arms 
about him in the starless darkness] . — Irwin, I 
can never give you myself, but I shall give you 



In Four Exposures 79 

the strongest love of my soul from eternity to 
eternity. 

/, [putting her from him with soft-voiced 
and soft-gestured contempt] . — Ah ! do n't — 
bother — me. Don't — bother — me! Don't 
— do n't — bother — me. [Exeunt. 



8o The Epistolary Flirt 



SCENE IV. 

Place: The City Library. Time: Evening. 
Philip leaning back in a listening attitude. 
Ernestine bending forward in an eagerly 
speaking attitude. As she finishes her nar- 
ration she drops her head, half lifelessly, to 
the cushions behind her. 

Ernestine. — Those were his last words. 
" Do n't — bother — me. Do n't — do n't 
— bother — me." They follow me always like 
the dead face that follows a murderer. 

Philip [meditatively] . — H'm ; seems to be 
a melodramatic cuss. You have n't much 
common sense, Ernestine. That is why I 
think you are not a poet. Real poets are rich 



In Four Exposures 81 

in common sense. But, honestly, how much 
of all this was put on ? 

E. [sitting up straight with startled eyes]. — 
Put on ? 

P. — Yes ; what hand is Imagination taking 
in the game ? A hysterical woman is a very 
deceitful creature, especially when she is mas- 
querading in a man's form. In that case she 
invariably thinks she is at the last gasp, when, 
if the truth were fully known, she has not 
~eally arrived at the first gasp. 

E. [sinking back wearily] . — I do n't know 
what you mean. 

P. — In words of one syllable then. Is not 
your friend a fraud ? 

E. [rising and pacing the floor] . — Have I 
told my story so badly as that ? He told me 
the exact truth when he said that his life had 
been absolutely pure — the exact truth whea 



Si The Epistolary Flirt 

foe said that up to the time he concealed my 
letters he had never concealed anything from 
his sweetheart — the exact truth when he said 
he suffered anguish because of this conceal- 
ment. 

P. — How do you know it was the exact 
truth ? 

E. — Oh, his eyes are pure as dew. When 
did ever the eyes bear false witness ? And 
then he has the expressive face of a lovely soul. 
Have you ever noticed that unlovely souls usu- 
ally hide behind a face as expressionless as a 
stone wall ? I grew to learn so many of his 
expressions : the sweet eagerness — the mirth- 
ful look when he was making fun of me — the 
contrite look when he was sorry he had made 
fun of me — the look of quivering sensitiveness 
— the look of yearning tenderness — the burn- 
ing and broken look of passion — the gray look 



In Four Exposures 83 

of self-loathing and despair. Oh, he told the 
truth ! His face and his voice and his eyes 
stabbed me with the truth. Would to God 
they had told me false ! 

P. — So then, as I understand it, this seraph 
with the seventeen halos is writhing in the 
burning marl of his own self-abhorrence. And 
all for what ? All for a stolen kiss or two ! 
Why, look you ! I 've committed that same 
crime myself. I was a boy, and she was trail- 
ing clouds of glory as she came, according to 
my veracious fancy, and we were on the way 
back from singing-school when the awful deed 
was committed — and mightily disappointed she 
would have been if it had n't been committed. 

E. — She would have honored you if you 
had n't. 

P. — Honored me? Fiddlesticks! You 
never went to singing-school. And was I re- 



«4 The Epistolary Flirt 

morseful over it ? Yes, I was. Remorseful 
that I had n't kissed her again. Ah, the golden 
opportunities of youth ! How shockingly they 
are wasted. 

E. — What became of her ? 

P. — Oh, she married some honest John 
Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher. I meet her 
about once in two or three years, and it would 
do you good to see the sentimental look sh< 
gives me when honest John's back is turned. 
She thinks of course that I am consigning my- 
self to perpetual bachelorhood for her sake, and 
I let her cherish the illusion. Rob a woman 
of her illusions and she would n't have charm 
enough left to mash an erotic maniac. Once 
when honest John's back was n't turned quite 
far enough he caught me giving a sentimental 
look in response, and gracious ! was n't he 
pleased to think that I envied him his treasure. 



: 



In Four Exposures 85 

It's the easiest thing in the world to make peo- 
ple happy. Be willing to humor their illusions, 
and they will steep you in perpetual smiles. 
Do n't you find it so ? 

E. — Oh, forgive me — I was n't listening* 
I am in dreadful pain, Philip, dreadful pain — 
really and truly. 

P. — My poor ingenuous child ! To think 
that had you been willing to marry me years 
ago — when I loved you — all this trouble 
would have been prevented. Or would it ? 

E. — When you loved me ? Do n't you 
love me now ? 

P. [smiling] . — You can 't help being a 
woman s can you ? Why, yes, of course I love 
you now. I kicked the selfish part of my love 
out behind the ash barrel in the back yard of 
my consciousness, and framed the unselfish 
part in purple and gold — the gold of sunshine* 



86 The Epistolary Flirt 

and the purple of forget-me-nots. A feat that 
your seraphic friend does n't seem to have got 
the knack of. 

E. — Oh, but I hindered him wofully by 
loving him all the time — yes, really I did — 
and showing him my love. And I helped you 
by never falling in love with you at all. 

P. — That is true. Still, most men in my 
place would have scorned to subsist on friend- 
ship instead of luxuriating on love. 

E. — Most men are fearful fools. What a 
blessing our life-long friendship has been to us. 
You were a dear boy not to let a one-sided 
love-affair break it up. 

P. [with a masculine toss of the head] . — 
And I won't be dear-boyed about it either. 

E. [faintly smiling] . — Well, you need n't be. 

P. — I love to see you smile. Do you know 
why I have called your attention to the claims 



In Four Exposures 87 

of friendship ? It is to show you that love is 
not the finest thing in the world. 

E. — No, the finest thing in the world is 
fame. That is the only thing worth while. 
That is what I shall live for. 

P. [resignedly]. — As I remarked before, 
you are deficient in common sense. What can 
fame do for you ? Fame tears off the roof and 
turns the electric light on the family frying- 
pan. Fame strips ofF the clothing, and exposes 
the shrinking frame from triceps to tibia, while 
it calls upon the general public to observe that 
your spine is curly and your toes straight, or 
that your toes are curly and your spine straight. 
Fame is a thing of Roentgen rays — it pierces 
the flesh itself, and discloses the brain and ner- 
vous system as nakedly as a painted picture in 
a work on physiology. If I had a sister who 
was liable to become famous I should buy her 



88 The Epistolary Flirt 

the cutest little coffin you ever saw, and take 
the speediest legitimate means of inducting her 
into its mysteries. 

E. [wearily] . — Well, if it 's as bad as that 
I shall have to content myself with being 
infamous. 

P. — Ernestine ! Why should you say that ? 

E. — Oh, I am in dreadful pain, Philip, — 
really and truly. If it were only my own pain 
I could bear it, but I feel the weight of his 
anguish pressing down on me — oh, awfully. 
Just as I felt his joy added to mine in the bliss 
of loving, so I feel his burden laid on my own 
in the weight of remorse. To be in hell is 
not the worst punishment. To know that I 
have dragged my child into hell — that is the 
unapproachable torture. 

P.— Your child? 

E. — Yes ; he is my child. This misery- 



In Four Exposures 89 

stricken face that haunts me never existed until 
I gave it birth. 

P. — Please remember that, dear as he is to 
you, you are equally dear to me. You are my 
child, and I will not let you suffer. 

E. [laughing hysterically] . — Papa, I wish 
you could relieve me of your grandchild. He's 
getting too heavy for me to manage. 

P. — Oh, he hasn't manhood enough in 
him to be anybody's grandchild. He is a wax 
doll baby — ruined by the touch of fire. Ugh ! 
He makes me sick. 

E. — The touch of fire did not ruin him, 
any more than it ruined you and your school- 
girl love. It was the touch of dishonor — the 
loving two women when he had sworn to love 
only one. He has the fiercely relentless con- 
science that makes one false step, or even the 
cherished imagining of a false step, a blacker 



90 The Epistolary Flirt 

stain in his eyes than the unpardonable sin 
would seem to another. 

P. — Ah, I know the type. A moral Nar- 
cissus, soaked in self-love, self-pride, and self- 
righteousness, and accustomed to worship the 
image of his own perfections. Said he was 
humiliated, did n't he, and mourned over the 
flaw in his own immaculateness ? I tell you 
I would rather be an ink-black scoundrel, ooz- 
ing iniquity at every pore, than one of these 
self-righteous skunks that — 

E. — Oh, peace ! Perhaps he was a little 
vain of his moral superiorities. When they are 
less rare it will be easier for their possessors 
to be unconscious of them. 

P. — And then his detestable selfishness ! A 
really honorable man does not permit the 
wrong woman to fall in love with him. He 
freezes over, or forgets to write her more than 



In Four Exposures 91 

a hurried note, or ignores her little coquetries. 
Instead of praising her for her pretty style of 
prancing over cantharides, he remembers how 
he would like to have his sister treated if she 
fell into eroticism, and restricts himself to gen- 
eralities. This creature waits to see how far 
you will go, and then insults you for not going 
farther. 

E. — Oh, he warned me — he warned me ! 

P. — When you seem helplessly in his power 
he begins to boohoo, not over your struggle and 
your tears, not over your aching heart and the 
hard, hard pain that you are so bravely endur- 
ing — no; but simply over the imaginary strain 
on his own selfish little lap-dog soul. 

E. — I tell you he is not in the smallest 
degree to blame. It was I who brought him 
to this pass. 

P. — What other pass could you have 



92 The Epistolary Flirt 

brought him to that would have pleased him so 
well ? Do you suppose he has grieved for a 
moment over the suffering that you had to 
endure ? The rank egotist ! 

E. — Yes, he is an egotist — he is a man — 
it is the same thing. But all your denuncia- 
tions are nothing but words. I know him. You 
would describe Eden by a minute account of 
the wilderness outside of it ; I have been on 
the other side of the wall. Nothing you or 
anyone could say would prevent me from see- 
ing him as he is — the sensitive face, warm, 
keen, alive, intensely sympathetic, responding 
as vividly to my emotion as to his own — the 
lovely mirror of two souls; the eyes that caught 
me, and held me, and prayed to me, and ca- 
ressed me, and shrank from me, and clung to 
me, and at last killed me with their misery — 
oh, the darling, my darling ! 



In Four Exposures 93 

P. — He is not your darling — he is his 
sweetheart's darling. 

E. — His sweetheart is perfect. Could she 
grudge me this drop from her full cup ? I shall 
never write to him again — never see him again. 
She would not grudge me my little breath of 
life. 

P. — So his fiance is perfection, is she ? I 
notice these desperately emotional, excitable 
fellows generally do marry a bread poultice, 
and endow it with the usual angelic attributes* 
[Rising.] Well, Ernestine, I can 't help you, 
so I will leave you. 

E. [entreatingly] . — Oh, not yet. I want 
to talk to you about him. I love him so — 
really I do. 

P. [comfortingly], — Yes, dear, I know* 
And in six weeks you will wonder why you 
loved him ; and in six months you will wonder 



94 The Epistolary Flirt 

if you loved him; and in six years you will 
wonder how he spells his name. 

E. [scornfully]. — That, I suppose, is the 
course of your love toward me. 

P. — No ; my love for you happened to be 
the noblest and finest thing in my nature, and 
it was transformed to a life-long pity for us. 
The love you feel for this outlaw is an ille- 
gitimate thing — it 's a thing to be hidden in 
darkness, to be hinted at below the breath, to 
be thought of with shame. Reason enough 
why it should find a speedy death. 

E. — Oh, I think it would pay me to keep 
it alive. It might prevent me from becoming 
a self-righteous pole-cat. 

P. — Twist my words to suit yourself. You 
know — 

E. [passionately]. — You have not the 
faintest conception of the sort of love I have 



In Four Exposures 95 

for him. If he were so black a sinner that 
even God's love should falter toward him, my 
love would not falter ; if the devastating years 
should rob him of all his grace and charm and 
vigor — make him physically an infant, and 
morally and mentally an idiot, my love would 
be only intensified. Did I not say truly when 
I said he is my child ? Do n't you understand 
me, Philip ? It is n't a matter of fancy or of 
choice — it is n't a matter of my wanting him 
to love me. I should rather he did not love me, 
because he would be happier that way. 

P. — I have n't the least doubt that you think 
you are sincere. 

E. — Oh, I am sincere, Philip. Every mood 
has its own Sincerity. The trouble is, moods 
are such fickle things. 

P. — You surprise me ! 

E. — Yes ; there 's no knowing when they 



96 The Epistolary Flirt 

will change. And that makes people fancy 
you are not sincere [with a sad sigh] . Really, 
I am to be pitied. I have two griefs. Grief 
number one, because my lover has forsaken me, 
and grief number two, because grief number 
one is but mortal. 

P. — I might endeavor to assuage one grief, 
but two is too many. Shall I read aloud to 
you ? Let me lend to the rhyme of the poet 
the beauty of my voice. [Picks up a volume 
of poems, from which a sealed letter drops to 
the floor.] Hullo ! here is a letter addressed 
to you. 

E. [stretching out a languid hand] . — Yes, 
it came this afternoon, but I did n't open it. I 
was in no mood for ladyish twaddle and gossip 
in general. 

P. — Perhaps you 'd better glance over it 
now. I've tried answering unopened letters 



In Four Exposures 97 

that were afterwards lost, and I never could 
decide as to whether congratulations or condo- 
lences were expected of me. Ernestine, what 
on earth is the matter ? You are deathly white. 

E. [with forced calm]. — She writes that 
cards are out for the wedding of — of the sub- 
jects of our conversation. They are to be 
married on Thursday. 

P. — Well, you knew all along that they 
were engaged. 

E. — Yes, but an engaged girl of five or six 
years' standing is such an old, old story. As a 
bride she won't be old at all. She '11 be new. 
Too suffocatingly new [groaning]. Think of 
the savage stab to my vanity. 

P. — Yes ; that certainly makes grief num- 
ber three. I thought you could hardly escape 
with only two. And it 's worse than the 
others, because it 's in a vital spot. 



9 8 The Epistolary Flirt 

E.— Yes, it 's horrible. And then, the in- 
decency, the immorality^ of it I To be wedded 
to one woman in soul, and then go straightway 
off to marry another. 

P. — Oh, well, it was n't exactly your soul 
that he wanted. At least, I inferred that from 
some things you said. 

E. [rising with flashing eyes]. — I wish her 
joy of him ! She '11 soon sicken of his subter- 
fuges and his selfishness, his contemptible 
crawling way of seeming to think of others' 
happiness when he is really caring only for his 
own, his disgusting habit of changing from 
flame to stone and from stone to flame at a 
moment's notice, his flippancy, his moral flim- 
siness, his — 

P. — That's my brave Ernestine. I can 
realize that this mood has its own sincerity. 



In Four Exposures 99 

Your words make grateful music in my ears. 
Let me go before they cease. [Closes the door 
behind him.] Pah ! her disease has become 
tiresome ; not interesting any more. Poor 
thing ! A specimen for Nordau. 

E. [going up-stairs] . — If only my present 
rational state of mind would last ! But it won't 
— it won't ! [Reaching her room.] I feel it 
weakening every moment. [Seizing Irwin's 
picture.] Ah, darling, no other woman on 
earth could give you such a love as I could 
give you — so fond, so faithful, so self-sacrific- 
ing. But then [smiling at the picture through 
her tears] , you know you do n't deserve a love 
like that, so an all-wise Providence is n't going 
to let you have it. Oh, dear ! [Setting the 
picture down.] I do n't suppose I '11 ever find 
anyone else half so impressible as Irwin. Such 



ioo The Epistolary Flirt 

men are all too few. No, I '11 not cry. It will 
give me a headache, and I can 't drive a head- 
ache away at the point of a pen as I can a 
heartache. Oh, how desolate I feel ! [Flings 
herself on the bed in a paroxysm of tears.] 

THE END. 



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BY R. R. DONNELLEY AND SONS CO. 

MDCCCXCVI 



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The Acrobatic Muse. Humorous Poems. 
i6mo, cloth, $1.25. 



THE PUBLICATIONS OF 



NOBLE (James Ashcroft). 

The Sonnet in England and Other 

Essays. Cloth, gilt top, 211 pages, $1.50. 

NOEL (Hon. Roden). 

My Sea and Other Posthumous Poems. 
With an introduction by Stanley Addleshaw. 
Tastefully printed and bound, 76 pages, $1.25 
net. 
PAYNE (William Morton). 

Little Leaders. A selection from edi- 
torial articles written for The Dial by Mr. 
W. M. Payne, Associate Editor. i6mo, cloth, 
gilt top, uncut, 278 pages, $1.50. 

PEATTIE (Elia W.). 

A Mountain Woman. With cover de- 
signed by Mr. Bruce Rogers, i6mo, cloth, gilt 
top, 251 pages, $1.25. (Second edition.) 

ROSSETTI (Dante Gabriel). 

Hand and Soul. By Dante Gabriel 
Rossetti. Reprinted from The Germ by Mr. 
William Morris, at the Kelmscott Press, in the 
u Golden " type, with a specially designed title- 
page and border, and in special binding 1 6mo, 
525 paper copies printed, and 21 on vellum. 
300 paper copies for America, of which a few 



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remain for sale at $3.50 net. (Vellum copies 

all sold.) 

SHARP (William). 

ECCE PUELLA. 8vO, cloth, $1.25- 

SHELLEY (Percy Bysshe). 

The Banquet of Plato. A dainty reprint 
of Shelley's little-known translation of " The 
Banquet of Plato," prefaced by the Poet's frag- 
mentary note on " The Symposium." Title- 
page and decorations by Mr. Bruce Rogers. 
i6mo, 126 pages, $1.50. Seventy-five copies 
on handmade paper, $3.00 net. 

SNOW (Florence L.). 

The Lamp of Gold. Printed at the De 
Vinne Press on French handmade paper. Title- 
page and cover designs by Mr. Edmund H. Gar- 
rett. i6mo, cloth, 121 pages, gilt top, $1.25. 

One hundred numbered copies on 'Japan paper, 
with etched title-page, and in special binding. 
Price on application. 

STODDART (Thomas T.). 

The Death- Wake ; or Lunacy. A 
Necromaunt in Three Chimeras. With an 
introduction by Mr. Andrew Lang. i6mo, 
125 pages, cardinal buckram, $1.50 net. 



PUBLICATIONS OF WAY Gf WILLIAMS 



TRAILL (H. D.). 

From Cairo to the Soudan Frontier. 
Cloth, 256 pages, $1.50. 

TODHUNTER (John). 

Three Irish Bardic Tales, being Met- 
rical Versions of the Three Tales known as 
The Three Sorrows of Story-Telling. Cloth, 
160 pages, $1.50 net. 

WATERLOO (Stanley). 

An Odd Situation. With introduction 
by Sir Walter Besant. Octavo, cloth, 240 
pages, gilt top, $1.25. 

WHITE (W. A.). 

The Real Issue. Cloth, gilt top, $1.25. 

WYNNE (Madelene Yale). 

The Little Room and Other Stories. 
With cover design, frontispiece, and decora- 
tions by the author. i6mo, 144 pages, linen,, 
gilt top, uncut, $1.25. 

YALE (Catharine Brooks). 

Nim and Cum and the Wonderhead 
Stories. Cover and decorations by Mr. Bruce 
Rogers. i6mo, linen, 126 pages, gilt top, 
uncut, $1.25. 



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